


Burn

by LeilaKalomi



Series: a collection of first nights [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Explicit Consent, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Overwhelmed Crowley (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Rimming, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 08:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24847000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: Aziraphale attempts to show Crowley how grateful he is for his intervention at the church in 1941.No need to have read any of the other works in the series.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: a collection of first nights [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767751
Comments: 25
Kudos: 229





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’ed by the very helpful imnotokaywiththerunning. Thank you!

“Lift home?” Crowley says. Dust hangs in the air around him, catching the light of the dying flames. _He’d been an angel once_ , Aziraphale thinks. Aziraphale has looked at Crowley for almost six thousand years—why is it that tonight he seems to glow?

“The famous Anthony J. Crowley,” the late Rose Montgomery—no, Greta Kleinschmidt—had said. How had she known him?

“What is it you’ve been doing?” Aziraphale says tentatively, as he makes his way over the rubble, clutching the books Crowley had saved. Aziraphale’s eyes train on Crowley unconsciously. Crowley’s body sways precariously as he picks his own way through, his suit moving against his frame, making Aziraphale aware of his slander form. He’s unmarked by the explosion. They both are, Aziraphale realizes, taking a quick glance down at his sleeve. Crowley has saved him, saved the books, and even saved his dignity. Aziraphale wants to touch him, embrace him, kiss his forehead and cheeks in benediction. But of course Crowley wouldn’t appreciate that. A benediction for a demon—it would likely hurt him, which— _oh_.

“Crowley, are you all right?” Aziraphale asks, his voice little more than a trembling breath. He’s felt this all along, but he’s always tried to hide it even from himself. He’s felt this all along, but he’s never let himself, has always told himself he couldn’t feel this. Not for a demon.

_He was an angel once._

Aziraphale can’t stop thinking it. He’d said it to him, the last time they met. But this isn’t like that—this is—he can’t deny this. He can’t—there’s no way he can ignore—

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Crowley has stopped in front of a large black car that shines even in the dark and the dust. It’s his, Aziraphale knows on sight, but he’s stopped by the passenger side. He opens the door for Aziraphale, and it’s almost too much. He’s grateful he can sit now; his head swims with it.

“What about you?” Crowley says, his voice quiet, the barbs almost, but not quite, smoothed to nothing.

“What’s that, dear boy?” Aziraphale says.

“Are _you_ all right?” Crowley says, enunciating each word carefully. He looks pointedly at Aziraphale, cocking his head slightly.

“I was concerned for your feet,” Aziraphale replies.

“Good as new,” Crowley says. He starts the car and eases it into the ruin of a roadway. “Am I taking you back to your bookshop?”

Aziraphale can only nod. His whole body thrums, and he realizes he is shaking. He realizes that he has been wrong, so very wrong. Crowley has been gone eighty years; now he’s not been back twenty minutes and Aziraphale knows he never wants him to leave again.

“Come inside,” he says, as the car slides to a stop outside the shop. It’s not a question. So Crowley, though he sputters a little in surprise, perhaps in indignation, does not say no. Aziraphale had known he would not. _Crowley never says no_ , he realizes. _It’s as if he can’t disappoint me._

All at once, he sees.

* * *

“You never answered me,” Aziraphale says, as Crowley sinks down onto the sofa. He had been holding his body too stiffly, and now he schools his face too still as if he’s trying not to wince.

“What?” Crowley says.

“About what you’d been doing. Why they knew you. Or your name at any rate.” Aziraphale stepped closer, stopping in front of him, hovering. He doesn’t know exactly what he means to do, but he can’t ignore Crowley’s pain. Not after this.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley says. He shakes his head, shifting his body uncomfortably. “Look, I don’t—I really don’t want to talk about it. I’m probably in enough trouble as it is.”

“Let me see to your feet,” Aziraphale says, and drops to the floor beside him.

Crowley scrambles back, sitting up straighter, arranging his feet so they rest on the ground. “No, don’t do that, angel. Ahh, don’t do that.”

“Crowley, please. I can see you’re hurt.”

“No more than a walk on the beach,” Crowley says, but he relaxes his posture slightly and stops resisting. Aziraphale touches the top of his shoe carefully, and when he doesn’t flinch, begins to undo the laces. Crowley lets out a long hiss as Aziraphale slips the shoe free from him. Aziraphale gasps when he sees why: the sock has adhered fully to Crowley’s foot, and it’s both damp and charred, smoking faintly in the open air.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. He’s careful to hold on to him by the leg, as he lifts his charred foot to his lips and kisses it toe, arch, and heel. This injury is his, for him, because of him, and he will not let Crowley suffer. But Crowley jerks back, nearly kicking Aziraphale in the face.

“Sorry, just—what are you doing?” he says. There’s no edge to his voice, nothing of anger or revulsion or even judgment. Just astonishment, just...concern.

_Even now. It’s all for me._

“Healing you,” Aziraphale says. He slips his fingers inside the top of Crowley’s sock and slides it down and off. It comes off easily now, revealing the new pink skin beneath. Aziraphale trails one hand over it lightly and watches as Crowley squirms.

“OK,” he whispers, smiling. “It, ah, tickles when you do that.”

“I’m sorry, dear.” Aziraphale kisses his foot again and releases it, his hand trailing down Crowley’s slender calf. He hopes the touch is comforting, that it lets Crowley see how much he means to Aziraphale. And his leg had felt so good in his hand, warm and slight and strong. “The other?”

“If you...you don’t have to.”

“You didn’t have to save the books. You didn’t have to come for me at all.”

_But you always do._

Aziraphale bends his head to Crowley’s other foot, kissing it over the shoe. Crowley, when he looks up, is wincing, and Aziraphale’s eyes go wide with alarm.

“Was it worse that time?” He rests a hand on Crowley’s thigh.

“No, you...no. It’s fine. Perfect.”

Aziraphale smiles. He unlaces the shoe and slides it off, rolls the sock down carefully, trailing his fingers over Crowley’s exposed ankle. He feels a stirring low in his belly at the sight of it, the bones, delicate and so clearly articulated through Crowley’s pale skin. There’s no excess flesh on him, nothing to hide what he is on the inside, Aziraphale thinks. He lifts Crowley’s foot and kisses it again, even though it’s healed, even though there’s no reason he should be doing this except that it feels so good. _Does it feel good to him, too?_

He looks up and sees Crowley, head tipped against the back pillows, his face almost a grimace. He lets his eyes travel over him. _Oh._ The voluminous trousers had hidden a great deal more when Crowley was standing. Now, the excess fabric has only given his body room to...express itself more fully. The drape of it hides nothing.

“Crowley? Would you take your glasses off?”

“Please, angel.”

Aziraphale lets his eyes linger over the bulge in Crowley’s trousers. Suggestively, he hopes. He wants his meaning to be clear.

“Please, what, dear? You may ask me for anything.”

Crowley only shakes his head, a tear runs down his face, and he does take the glasses off then, tossing them onto the side table and scowling.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, his voice rough.

Aziraphale gets to his knees, resting one hand on Crowley’s thigh. “Oh, but I do,” he says. He rubs a small circle into his thigh and Crowley shifts, letting his legs fall further apart. His head pushes into the back of the sofa and he sighs.

Aziraphale moves his hand to the inside of Crowley’s thigh, just above his knee. “Do you want me to touch you like this?” he says.

“Fuck. Yes. Please. Anything, Aziraphale.”

“Anything,” Aziraphale says. “Well, let’s see what we can do.”

* * *

Aziraphale may have stopped himself if he’d allowed himself to think. But he’s learning not to trust his thoughts either, and tonight, _this_ is what’s real, _Crowley_ , and _this_ , this _thing_ that he’s only just starting to see clearly. He wants to open himself to it, let it lead, because _he_ obviously doesn’t know how to. So he lets his hands move higher, lets them fall on Crowley’s waist, open the buckle of his trousers. He lets himself catalog the quiver that passes through Crowley as he touches his stomach, lightly, as he works the trousers down and off, exposing his bright cock, breaking the fall of his dark gray shirt.

Aziraphale gasps at the sight of it, or rather, at the sight of Crowley, _here_ , _this_ way, for him. He presses his hands to the sides of Crowley’s hips, tracing his fingers there, admiring the spareness, again, the transparency, the way he’s put together just so, everything tight and neat and exposed.

“Crowley, may I…?”

“Please. Anything you like.”

Aziraphale bends forward and kisses the long line of Crowley’s cock. Crowley shudders, his entire body quaking when Aziraphale curls a hand around him and takes him into his mouth.

Aziraphale knows how to do this. He has not done it before, but, well, one does pick up certain information. He knows to lick from tip to base, to sink down onto him with his lips over his teeth, to keep some pressure there when he does. He knows that the head of his cock is most sensitive.

There are things he had not considered: the feel of Crowley’s thighs around his head, the closeness of him, the press of all that hot, silky skin. The smell of his body, inhuman, and smoky, and deep, like some old, fragrant wood. How fragile and heavy he feels in Aziraphale’s mouth. The things he could do with his hands, and how badly he would want to do them, even with Crowley already buried inside his mouth.

Aziraphale cups his scrotum gently, cradling and stroking, then slipping lower to press against his perineum. Crowley’s hips jerk, and he bends forward, gasping, resting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale’s cock twitches in his trousers at the touch. He can feel himself starting to leak.

“I’m going to come, angel,” Crowley says. His voice is choked, barely his own, but Aziraphale can still hear the apology there, and he can’t do anything about it in this position except to continue stroking, moving his head and tongue, until Crowley comes almost in his throat, Aziraphale catching the burnt, metallic taste of him as he continues stroking. When Crowley finishes, he collapses against the sofa, but his hand still rests in Aziraphale’s hair, and Aziraphale does not know when it had gotten there. As Aziraphale’s head rests against his thigh, Crowley’s hand begins to stroke lightly. It makes Aziraphale’s chest feel tight, too full. He presses his lips against his leg, begins to kiss a line toward his groin, to push his legs further apart so he can move in even closer. Crowley’s hands slide from his head, down to his back, pulling him in.

“You’re so beautiful,” Crowley says. “I can’t believe I never told you that. Isn’t that...isn’t it weird?”

Aziraphale reaches up, pushes Crowley’s chest back so he’s leaning against the sofa again, then he reaches down and lifts his legs, holding them behind the knees as he pushes forward, pressing kisses to his perineum; Crowley had been so sensitive there.

“ _Fuck_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley says. Aziraphale pulls back and looks at him, his legs spread apart for him, his body trembling, the expression on his face one of wonder and trust and tenderness. Aziraphale stands up, still holding his legs and pushes him back further, so he’s lying fully on his back. Crowley looks a little surprised, but it’s probably just the miracle Aziraphale had used on the sofa. Even so, he asks.

“Still all right?”

“So good.”

“Good, darling. Can you relax?” Aziraphale rests Crowley’s feet on the edges of the sofa so his hands are free and runs a hand over him, stroking him from his scrotum down to his tight pink anus. It expands and contracts slightly, under his touch, an eager pulse, and Crowley moans, his penis swelling and growing erect again.

Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat. His own erection is becoming almost painful, but he is determined to do this for Crowley, _only_ for Crowley. Crowley has done so much for him. Aziraphale had not realized it before. Oh, he’d sensed Crowley’s depth of feeling, but never expected it was directed at him; angels, as a general rule, do not expect to be the recipients of love.

He rests his hands on Crowley’s thighs, stroking gently as they tremble against his palms, then leans forward and presses his lips to the tight ring of flesh, letting his tongue dart out and taste.

“Crowley,” he whispers, because it’s all he can think, before diving back in to suck and tease at the tiny opening.

When Crowley’s body begins to shake, and he begins to thrust up, searching for _something_ to move against, Aziraphale adds a spit-slicked finger, miracling the saliva to a slippery texture. Crowley gives a strangled cry as Aziraphale breaches him; Aziraphale looks up in time to watch a quiver pass through his body, and he wants to hold him, to take him in his arms and press kisses to his face, his lips. Oh, they’d rather skipped all that, hadn’t they? Instead, Aziraphale keeps his finger moving, watching Crowley’s body starting to move as he grinds down onto his hand, whimpering as Aziraphale adds another finger and curves them just so. Crowley’s body is tight, hot, straining around him, and Aziraphale feels himself growing dizzy, feeling light, as if something inside him is exploding. Crowley gives a shout and comes over his own stomach with Aziraphale’s hand still buried inside him. Aziraphale presses his own eyes closed and hears himself making a noise he can’t stop as he falls forward, his hips thrusting involuntarily against the side of the sofa. When he opens his eyes again, sticky inside his trousers, Crowley is peering down at him. “Come here,” he hisses, grabbing Aziraphale’s arms and hauling him up to lie beside Crowley. Crowley is kissing him, then, gentle, reverent presses of lips to his face and neck. It feels like worship. And _how_ can Aziraphale let him do this now?

“You don’t have to do this,” Aziraphale says, pleading. If he lets Crowley do this, he will do what he always does; he will grow greedy for more; he will let Crowley indulge him.

Crowley goes still immediately. “Should I stop? Do you not want—?”

“I want it to be for _you_. I want to do what _you_ want. You do so much for me, Crowley. I’m not—I don’t—don’t need—”

“Aziraphale...do you _want_ me to kiss you?”

Aziraphale nods.

“Because I want that too, I want it _so much_ , angel.”

“Oh, then. Well, yes. If _you_ want.”

Crowley does, their lips coming together for the first time. Crowley’s are thin and soft, his tongue darting into Aziraphale’s mouth, tender but eager. Aziraphale melts against him, the tiny touches of their skin against each other. Aziraphale had been right—he does want more.

“Can I take all this off?” Crowley whispers, trailing his fingers over Aziraphale’s waistcoat, tugging at his bow-tie. “Can I—can we—? Just hold you? Want to feel you.”

Aziraphale snaps his fingers and they are naked, still wrapped together, all his skin against all of Crowley’s and it’s still not enough; they’re still not close enough. He’s relieved when Crowley pushes against his shoulder, guiding him to push his hips back against Crowley’s softening cock. He moans in surprise when Crowley wraps a hand around his cock.

“You don’t have to—”

“It is for me, angel,” Crowley says. “OK? I want to make you come.”

“I already—”

“I know,” Crowley kisses his shoulder. “But now I want to _make_ you.”

Aziraphale nods, his head bumping gently into Crowley’s chin as he presses into him. Crowley begins to stroke him to arousal, begins to thrust against him from behind, his own cock grown stiff yet again.

Aziraphale can’t stop shaking, whimpering, straining, pushing back against him. He feels greedy, but he’s too lost to care.

“It’s OK, angel. Let go, let go.”

“Ahh,” Aziraphale says, the burning has returned to his belly already, and his legs twitch as he grinds back against Crowley, feeling his cock sliding against his buttocks, between his thighs. Crowley bends forward and drops a kiss against his shoulder, tongues along his neck and Aziraphale groans shamefully, feeling as if he’s being wrenched from within and he comes again, different this time—not a surprise; not a secret, with Crowley wrapped around him, his body warm and solid behind him.

His hands, again, move to stroke Aziraphale’s hair as he uses a quick miracle to clean them up.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispers.

“Don’t do that,” Crowley says.

So Aziraphale moves his hips instead, and Crowley laughs and holds on, thrusting a few times before he comes again, wrapped around him, and the two of them are sticky with it. Crowley, again, doesn’t let it linger. Aziraphale snuggles back against him, kissing the angular arm that is wrapped so gently around him.

“Will you stay?” Aziraphale asks. He’s careful not to say how long. He wishes he could ask him to stay forever. But he will let Crowley decide what they can risk. He has not forgotten how they parted before. Has not forgotten what Crowley had asked for, what he’d been unable to give. “I understand if you need to leave.”

“Not going anywhere,” Crowley says. “Not tonight anyway.”

Tonight. Aziraphale will take it. It will have to be enough for now.


End file.
